


Maestro and Mine

by unamusedelipsis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gift Exchange, M/M, johnlockchallenges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unamusedelipsis/pseuds/unamusedelipsis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Mercifully betaed by thatonewritergirl and kansikuvapoika also kas—sorry if I deviated highly from the prompt <br/>The prompt is: It’s an alternative universe where one finds his soulmate over music. Everyone has a part of melody inside them that’s completed by their other half. It can be expressed over instrument (like Sherlock’s violin) or just by humming it. However, a person does not simply reveal their melody since it’s the most personal thing a human being has. Based on that I’d love a Soulmate-Johnlock gift. Can be just friendship, platonic, romantic or anything in between. Remember, prompts are only the basis for your work, and you can take it in whatever direction you see fit.</p></blockquote>





	Maestro and Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kashikahata](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kashikahata).



The street lights shine at a dim, as if afraid to interrupt the concerto being performed inside the sanctum of Baker Street. The night softly cradles the detective and the soldier in a protective veil gently as hands slip carefully up sides and through tangles of hair. Tonight’s performance will feature one accomplished musician, Sherlock Holmes, playing the piece entitled simply “Mine”. The instrument in question, is one doctor John Watson. On goose-down stage, draped in cotton, the consulting detective’s thumb tremble traces the ribs of the sandy-haired lover. The small blonde man lies on his back, shirtless, breathing deeply, smiling contentedly.

Who can say what silent conversations pass between two people in the night, moments before intimacy? Perhaps it’s the slow, soft smile that sits on the corner of a beloved’s lip, the seat of a kiss inviting and beckoning. Or is it the downcast eyes of the lover, dilated-fully, memorizing every detail that asks permission once more. How does one explain the desire to pleasure and not be pleasured, to play and not be played? As the seconds tick past all they can do is sit and listen to each other breathe, as if waiting for the orchestra to finish assembling and tuning before the maestro raises his wand and begins the piece.

Sherlock eyes John’s chest and waist hungrily, a possessiveness pooling in the set of his eyes. Tonight would be one of /those/ nights, John can see it in the detective’s face. On occasion, Sherlock embarks on a journey of discovery. What touch, what pressure, made what noise. It had been ages since the last time, and John himself is thrilled at the almost worshipping manner that his lover touches him. At times, the touches make John wonder if Sherlock’s deductive skills had already catalogued and filed away any surprises that sex with the doctor might offer him.

Hovering over his lover, legs spread wide as he straddles the older man, Sherlock, fully clothed, lifts a pale hand running from clavicle to sternum, pausing over John’s chest. His heart-tempo charges on as Sherlock counts the measure. A quick pace, 4/4 measure, German, thoroughly unromantic in the musical sense, but enthralling here in their shared bedroom. He sighs deeply as he contemplates the man beneath him. Life rises, falls, rises, falls, beneath Sherlock’s fingers as his lover inhales and exhales.

“My life lives locked in that that rib cage,” Sherlock thinks face turning hard as he allows his mind to slip into sad memories before John. The world before, ugly and dull, had made the detective feel as if life would drag on forever. Then John had arrived, and the universe was made loud and beautiful. Odd how one man can change everything, as if divinely crafted and installed in his life. John reaches up gently touching the younger man’s face, nodding just so. ‘It’s all right. Go on,’ his eyes encourage.

Sherlock unbuttons his shirt, exposing the pale smoothness underneath. He pauses, suspended over his lover, slowing his own breathing. He slips, between the smaller man’s parted thighs but continues to linger above him. John lets his hand slip down the detectives neck and mirrors the gifted caress but going further to the brunette’s belt buckle. 

John’s eyes question the permission and are greeted by soundless reproach. An arched eyebrow, all ill-stuck harp chord rings between them as Sherlock gently shakes his head. Sandy-blonde hair falls over eyes as the doctor nods in understanding. His other hand joins the first, pulling Sherlock’s shirt free, palms snaking around that thin waist and pulling him down, now flush chest to chest.

Tonight was a night made for a composition, Sherlock thought lazily licking his lips. He knew the placement of fingers, had memorized them all before, but tonight demands patience for the masterpiece. Sherlock’s mouth dips, meeting the soft skin of neck. First, the woodwinds. He kisses John softly and slowly, John sighs contentedly relaxing his breathing and slowing the pace of his heart, the measures slow and languid as Sherlock works his lips against salted skin. The shy entrance of the suit halting and unsure, John hums and exhales relaxing under the ministrations of adoration. His hands rest on the small of Sherlock’s back splayed, resisting the urge to roam. This was Sherlock’s night to explore his body, not the other way around. He would have to be patient.

The brunette moves his lips just at doctor’s pulse, sucking in oxygen through his nose only to sigh heavily against skin. The sudden heat from Sherlock forcing the other man to push the breath from his lungs almost in a grunt. Sherlock counts the pulse beneath his lips. Strings now, in the count of a Sarabande, Spanish, steady and slow, a guitar to keep rhythm, Sherlock’s own throbbing pulse. Sherlock gently caresses John’s body, adding the delicate section of violins to the suit. His right hand ghosting to caress the shell of ear and hair settling on neck, accenting the sighs with a slight gasp. All touches on that fine tanned skin light and adoring. The promising overture, a generous prelude to the main performance tonight.

John luxuriates in the affection. Sherlock has an uncanny skill to masterfully bring John pleasure. The slightest touch here, pressure there, and John can feel heat spread over his entire body. He’d had sexual encounters before, known lust before, but this was fundamentally different. As John began to try to form words to speak to his love about the completeness he felt in that space, under his hands, the detective’s symphony changed.  
Now the brass, he moves, sure and bold to the lips of his partner, slow at first, but building. His kiss is urgent, deepening quickly. A dramatic shift, building now, the tempo increasing. The violin string fingers no longer gentle and shy, they move with insistence, one hand grasping John firmly at the hip, and the other grasping the cheek and jaw. The force of the kiss drawing forth the cello moans from deep within the doctor’s chest. John’s own hands move down to Sherlock’s lush posterior pulling him close. The climb hastens, cymbals now and drums. Sherlock’s lower hand snakes around to John’s straining trousers, causing the good doctor to groan loudly into Sherlock’s mouth.

And then silence. Sherlock goes impossibly still. The smaller man felt the shift, the pause, and retrains himself, forcing himself to breathe quietly. This is the rest in the piece, for the drama of the next movement to be truly felt.

‘Too much, too fast,’ Sherlock thinks removing his hand, ‘ too soon in the piece.’ He places his hands on either side of John’s shoulders and pushes himself up and away from his lover.  
The whimper John makes as Sherlock’s warm body slips away is the first note in the next movement. This part higher in pitch, clearly a piece designed for movement. The piccolo too sharp here? Perhaps a lone violin? Sherlock, on hands and knees, head lowers like a kitten lapping milk, began to do almost just that. His tongue slowly, deliberately began to tease the pert flesh of John’s nipple. John’s sigh quickly transforming into a whine as his head fell back at the sensation. Back arches and bows as breath is held like a suspended note only to escape in relief as contact broke. Again contact, rougher this time, teeth pressing and pulling. John’s breath caught like a note sustained by an as(?) finger pressing a violin string shifts and then releases.

Sherlock plays on, tune after tune, fingers and tongue ghosting over the small body of the doctor until finally both men had had enough with the building. Sherlock descends slipping between parted legs, undoing buttons, slipping down zippers. He releases before him the instrument that would build toward the climax of the piece.

The whisper of hands tightening in sheets, punctuated with the creeks of shifting weight in a bed resound in the room. Weatherworn hands encircled curls, pulling closer, as breathing turned ragged. John’s body trembles, eyes screwing closed. A chorus of “ah, ah, ah,” a refrain of “nngh Sherlock” sounded in ensemble with “Oh God” echoed in the silence of the room. As Sherlock’s mouth moves, guided by John’s hands there is one thought that sounds above all others.    
“Mine”

Eventually, the last note of John Watson’s Cantata sounds around the room. The silence interrupted only by the applause of rain meeting street outside the room. As the detective clears the stage and sprawls next to the smaller man, basking in the complete composition, the next performer readies himself. The next piece will be performed by one John Watson and will commence after a short intermission.

**Author's Note:**

> Mercifully betaed by thatonewritergirl and kansikuvapoika also kas—sorry if I deviated highly from the prompt   
> The prompt is: It’s an alternative universe where one finds his soulmate over music. Everyone has a part of melody inside them that’s completed by their other half. It can be expressed over instrument (like Sherlock’s violin) or just by humming it. However, a person does not simply reveal their melody since it’s the most personal thing a human being has. Based on that I’d love a Soulmate-Johnlock gift. Can be just friendship, platonic, romantic or anything in between. Remember, prompts are only the basis for your work, and you can take it in whatever direction you see fit.


End file.
